


bite or stop barking

by remaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, also some adults, fails before sails, hahahh i entertain myself, harry's besties, i hope you're entertained as well, idiots to lovers, same age au, tom's minions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: “I’m single! Would somebodypleasedate me??”The Great Hall falls silent. Slowly, all eyes are drawn towards the single figure atop the Gryffindor table.Nobody moves. Nobody wants to be eviscerated piece by piece by Tom Riddle in the middle of the night.Harry huffs in disappointment. “Figures that you’re all a bunch of flobberworms. Cowards, the lot of you!” he shouts, then clambers off of the pot roast as his robes start to smoke from the acidity of Snape’s glare.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 55
Kudos: 537





	bite or stop barking

**Author's Note:**

> i’m determined to get over this massive writer’s block, especially with the circumstances ;-; rest assured, i’m sitting on a few thousand words for each wip! But this silly thing wouldn’t leave me alone… so… hoping to finish this and post within the next two weeks <3
> 
> Quick context for our mishmashy AU:  
> *Tom and Harry are in fourth year (no triwizard tournament, Tom hasn’t found out about his parentage yet), Ginny and Draco in third year, Cedric in fifth. Other characters are in various years.  
> *Snape teaches only N.E.W.T potions and does research; Slughorn teaches all other potions classes and is Slytherin head.  
> *Harry’s parents died to Grindelwald; he’s still legally living with the Dursleys because Sirius and Remus are fighting the legal guardian battle with Dumbledore. Sirius never went to Azkaban, but he did get injured badly enough fighting Grindelwald to put him out of commission for the same amount of time  
> *Everything else: take it as you see it <3  
> *Oh, right, also: that’s not gender-bent Blaise, that’s Blaise’s mother as a fourth year Slytherin. heehee

1

As a rule, Tom would never _c_ _onsider_ confessing first, but he’s been waiting on Harry for two years, and he’s already allotted his patience to taking over the Wizarding World— there’s none left for Harry’s self-doubt. So, during the summer between his third and fourth year at Hogwarts, while Missus Cole is wreaking havoc on her liver and the rest of the residents of Wool’s Orphanage are fighting over food, whenever he takes a break from homework and networking and his own research, Tom plans.

He doesn’t expect his first plan to survive contact with Harry Potter— no plans do— so he also makes a plan C, and D, and so on. If all of those fail, he can loop back to plan B: bullshit.

Now, just to pick a time to enact the first step… this is the riskiest part. Tom must guarantee Harry’s feelings for him, so as to eliminate all chance of rejection. Right at the beginning of school isn’t an option; Harry always needs time to adjust to Hogwarts, after the Dursleys. Before winter break would be ideal.

Tom watches and tests the waters every so often. He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

* * *

Ron slams his hands down onto the library table. “Mate, I support you and everything, but it’s been a bloody _two months_ ,” he whispers furiously. Hermione, arriving behind Ron, checks the area for Madame Pince before perching on the edge of the table with a scowl.

Harry blinks absently in the face of their combined wrath, his gaze distant behind his glasses, his potions textbook laying forlornly before him, long forgotten. It’s not even open to the right page. “It’s not like I haven’t moved on. I mean, that’d be ridiculous, right? Pining after someone who’d never in a million years look at me that way, and we’re _rivals_ , besides.” Harry sighs, wistfully.

Hermione reaches over and flips the neglected textbook’s cover closed. “This is an intervention,” she declares, the gravity of the situation allowing her to skip her usual reprimand for damaging book bindings. As she shoves the textbook into Harry’s bag and double-checks that they haven’t forgotten anything important of his, Ron hauls him out of his seat.

Or— he tries to. Curse Wood’s insane quidditch practices, Ron’s too sore for this.

“Come on,” Ron groans. Harry resists. Ron follows Harry’s line of sight to a figure across the room— perfect hair, stupid face, sitting ramrod straight even though anyone else would slouch over a book that thick. Okay, maybe not most purebloods, but comparing purebloods to the masses skews the average, as Hermione says. 

Ron changes tactics. Harry’s moping is the opposite of how he should be, which is bright and chaotic and happy; Ron just can’t bring himself to be angry. So he scoops Harry up and tosses him over his shoulder, shares a nod with Hermione, and strides out of the library, ignoring Madame Pince’s indignant squawk and the prickling of other students’ stares on the back of his neck. 

Harry doesn’t protest, which means that Ron and Hermione should’ve staged this intervention weeks ago. Probably the day after Harry came back from the summer morose and then stayed that way.

“Did you see that?” Hermione says to Ron as they pass the Great Hall.

“The travesty that is our Harry’s terrible taste in blokes?”

Hermione glances at Harry, who seems spaced out enough for her to remark, “No, Riddle. He was _staring_ . His parchment was blank, there wasn’t any ink in his inkwell, the nib of his quill was broken, and he didn’t flip a _single page_ while we were in there.”

Ron considers this. “Hermione, I keep telling you, this doesn’t prove anything.”

“His usual reading speed for that textbook is about two and a half pages per minute! We were in there searching for Harry for _three_ minutes!”

“There’s no way you— you must’ve made those numbers up!” Ron cries.

“Since when have I ever made a number up?” Hermione defends indignantly.

“Okay, fine, never. Still.”

“He was doing the _jaw thing_ ,” Hermione says with finality. “That _has_ to prove something.”

“ _Jaw_ thing?”

“Y’know, the thing boys do with their jaw when they’re mad or jealous or stressed. It’s like— the masseter jumps when they clench their jaw.”

“The masseter?”

“This muscle. Right here.” Hermione pokes Ron’s.

“ _I_ _’ve_ never heard of that,” Ron says, swatting her hand away from his face. This is the issue with one of his best friends being female. Hermione doesn’t just speak ‘smart’, she also speaks ‘girl’, and Ron can’t interpret either of those things, especially when they’re combined.

“Just because you don’t know it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Hermione says. “ _You_ do it sometimes, especially when you’re playing chess.” She colors for some reason. “Regardless, the evidence stands.”

“Maybe he was only daydreaming,” says Ron, weakly, because they both know that Riddle doesn’t _daydream_ . “Anyway— _you’re_ supposed to be the practical one.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Hearing the sudden venom in Hermione’s voice, Ron hastily backtracks, nearly tripping up a flight of stairs. “I mean, you’re smart and responsible— doesn’t that mean you should _disapprove_ of Riddle? I’ve never had a good feeling about him. He’s just as bigoted as the rest of those slimy snakes, probably murders ‘mudbloods’ in his free time and laughs about it with his cronies afterwards—“

“Well he—“ Hermione presses her lips together as Harry stirs. Ron mentally pinches himself. This is a serious situation. He shouldn’t be thinking about her lips.

“Mmmergh,” Harry mumbles into Ron’s back, as if in reprimand. Ron and Hermione guiltily stop talking until Harry settles down.

“Seriously,” says Hermione at length, “Riddle stopped Draco Malfoy from going after Myrtle Wilson that one time, remember?”

“Only because Harry threatened to hex him to kingdom come and also to report him to Dumbledore if he didn’t,” Ron counters. “And I reckon that was half because Harry blackmailed Abraxas Malfoy.” Hermione steamrolls over him.

“And my theory is perfectly sound. Harry isn’t the brightest. If Riddle really didn’t _like_ like him, why would he even listen to him so avidly? Heaven knows that even I don’t listen to everything Harry says half the time, because half of the time, it’s rambling nonsense. Why would Riddle be distracted whenever Harry’s near? What if he really didn’t know how much Harry hates petunias? Doesn’t trying to give someone flowers seem like romantic interest to you?”

“Hermione,” Ron says, very patiently, “you’re reading too much into it. Don’t petunias mean anger and resentment or something?”

Hermione sighs noisily. “Come _on_ , Ron, their second meaning was ‘desire to spend time with someone.’ We literally read that passage together. Not to mention, how would you explain everything _else_ that was second year?” 

“I would never have pegged you as such a hopeless romantic. Emphasis on _hopeless_.” Ron adjusts his grip on Harry.

“Give it a chance. Remember, after the basilisk incident?”

“I can’t believe you always bring this up.”

“You said, ‘Hermione, you’re always right and from now on I will always, always listen to you forever, I’ll never doubt you again,’” Hermione recites triumphantly.

“You can’t use that to win every argument! It’s been two years— I said it in a moment of weakness!”

“Mmmergh,” Harry says into Ron’s shirt, as if in agreement. Ron and Hermione wait for him to settle down again.

After another long moment, Hermione says, “How bad could it be, anyway? ‘Murder,’ really?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past that slimy snake,” Ron mutters. “They still haven’t found Flint’s body. It’s suspicious.”

“Flint was recruited to play Quidditch with the Falmouth Falcons, and you _know_ that,” says Hermione, exasperated, then to the Fat Lady, “Fairy lights.”

“Snippy,” the Fat Lady titters, swinging open.

They pause their conversation while passing through the common room. In the fourth year boy’s dormitory, Hermione neatly sets Harry’s bag next to his trunk while Ron deposits Harry on his bed, taking care not to drop him too harshly. Harry immediately burrows beneath the covers despite being fully dressed.

Ron and Hermione share a look. They’ll put the Riddle argument on hold. For now.

“Harry! Shoes!” Hermione says sharply, and the small lump beneath the blankets shifts. After a moment, it expels a pair of scuffed, secondhand shoes, which fall off of the bed haphazardly.

Ron wants to facepalm, but Hermione would slap him, so he doesn’t.

“Now, _Harry_ ,” Hermione says dangerously, “are you going to hide like a child, or come out and face us like a Gryffindor?” While Harry mulls over the drawbacks of increasing Hermione’s wrath, Hermione raises an eyebrow at Ron. Oh, that’s her _I need something to brandish_ face. Ron retrieves a roll of parchment and hands it to her with an eye-roll. 

“I _am_ a child, I’m fourteen,” Harry says mulishly, muffled, but he peeks cautiously out of the top of the blankets.

 _Cute,_ Ron thinks, then catches himself. Harry would actually kill him if Ron cooed, moping or not. Ron settles for fixing the tilt of Harry’s glasses, which were falling off of his nose, while Hermione launches into a speech she’d rehearsed with Ron two days before. There’s a lot of Tom Riddle this and Tom Riddle that and moving on and not letting Tom Riddle define Harry. Hermione whaps Harry several times with the roll of parchment. Ron is glad that it’s a Saturday; it lasts a long while.

When she winds down, Harry winces and says pathetically, “But I still want to _lick_ him, Hermione,” and his fingers twist into the sheets.

Ron disentangles them with care. “Just consider that you can’t let Riddle win, mate, and letting him control how you feel? He’s winning,” Ron says, knowing that will be more effective than stirring up Harry’s guilt over worrying them, and sure enough, a bit of a fire lights up in Harry’s eyes.

“I won’t let him win,” says Harry, determined. Ron topples over as he leaps out of the bed. He looks ridiculous, what with the lopsided hair and socked feet and his rumpled uniform, marching out of the dorm. Hermione and Ron simultaneously sigh, long-suffering.

Harry reaches the door before turning around sheepishly. “Forgot my shoes,” he says as he crams them on, and then walks back out a little more like a normal person.

“Reckon our intervention was a success?” Ron says, then yelps as Hermione whacks him. “Oi!”

* * *

Ron and Hermione aren’t sure where Harry disappears off to, but at least he shows up for dinner.

“About time, mate,” Ron tells him, relieved, immediately scooting over on the bench to make room. Harry hasn’t eaten in the Great Hall since the Welcoming Feast, going to the kitchens instead.

Across the table, Hermione raises her head from her food and narrows her eyes at Harry.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” says Harry, fresh-faced. “I’m starving.”

“What look?” Hermione returns.

“ _That_ one, the one you’re giving me right now,” says Harry. The world rights itself again and they have their old, snarky Harry back. Ron beams at him. Dinner tastes better than it has in two months.

Well, it does, until Riddle arrives at the Slytherin table with his posse in tow, Harry perks up, and Ron realizes that no, Harry has not let anything go, of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Whatever you’re thinking of, Harry, let it be known that it is _not_ what we meant,” Ron says preemptively. Hermione stabs viciously at her dessert pie.

Harry sniffs. “Look, I have this plan—“

“Please leave me out of it,” Neville whimpers from a few seats down, leaning away. 

Harry sounds extremely affronted. “Ye of little faith! Don’t my plans usually work?”

“No,” Ron, Hermione, Neville, and everybody sitting nearby say at once.

“I’m worried to be associated with you, you crazy fucker,” says Dean Thomas, who has recently started swearing and thinks it makes him ‘badass.’

“Harry,” says Hermione in a soothing tone that’s not really very soothing at all, “perhaps it might be better if you talked through this plan with us, and we could give you a second opinion.”

“No, I have absolute confidence in this plan. Statistically, it’s impossible for all of them to fail— I’m due for a success,” Harry insists. 

“The Law of Averages _doesn’t exist_ ,” Hermione says.

Harry climbs onto the table, waiting for no-one’s approval. Ron hides his face in his hands, his ears burning, as Harry waits for a lull in conversation. Then, Harry yells, “I’m single! Would somebody _please_ date me??”

Dean Thomas’ surreptitious “He’s bloody _mental_ ” echoes in the abruptly silent Great Hall. Slowly, all eyes are drawn towards the single figure atop the Gryffindor table.

Nobody moves. Nobody wants to be eviscerated piece by piece by Tom Riddle in the middle of the night. Ron is melting into his bench out of secondhand embarrassment.

Harry huffs in disappointment. “Figures that you’re all a bunch of flobberworms. Cowards, the lot of you!” he shouts, then clambers off of the pot roast as his robes start to smoke from the acidity of Snape’s glare.

Just before he’s fully off the table, though, a familiar voice from further down the Gryffindor table shrieks, “I’ll date you!” and then somebody from the Hufflepuff table shouts back, “No, _I_ will!” and the hall erupts into pandemonium. Somehow, there is a food fight that even Snape’s scowl fails to prevent. Late that night after detentions have been issued and house points have been lost and a few house-elves have popped into the dorm to thank Harry for the extra work and to congratulate him on his _date_ — good Godric, Ron’s head is spinning, he doesn’t even know who Harry’s ended up with— Ron suddenly remembers something strange.

He’d caught a glimpse, earlier, of the Slytherin table, where a small posse of them were the only ones abstaining from the chaos. Riddle was probably afraid to ruin his perfect hair, Ron thinks with a sneer. Anyway— Riddle had glanced up, met his eyes accidentally, and Ron can’t help but puzzle over how Riddle had looked sort of… Ron doesn’t know.

Sort of— shocked, and then weirdly intent. But why should Riddle _care_ ? It’s not like he’d ever dated Harry himself, so there’d be no reason for him to be jealous, or anything, and since he’s been Harry’s declared rival from just about day two in their first year, _he_ of all people should be familiar with Harry’s special brand of insanity.

There’d be no reason for him to be jealous, or anything, unless… 

Unless Hermione _is_ right.

Something niggles at Ron about the memory. Riddle’s jaw had been clenched. 

_Ron had witnessed the jaw thing._

Morgana help them all, Hermione’s right.

* * *

So it turns out that the Gryffindor who shrieked was _Ginny_. Ron doesn’t know who he’d murder in the event that Harry and Ginny tried to date— Harry, for dating his precious younger sister? Ginny, for dating his soft-hearted best friend? Both of them, and then himself? Thank goodness Harry picked the Hufflepuff instead.

“Hi, I’m Cedric,” says Cedric Diggory three days later, catching Ron and Hermione in the kitchens during lunch. He holds out his hand for Hermione to shake first. Smart of him, though Hermione doesn’t take it, just narrows her eyes at him from behind her giant textbook. Lately, she’s been of the strong opinion that Diggory and Harry conspired together at some point, that this whole dating thing is a giant conspiracy, and she’s been holding a bit of a grudge at being left out. Hermione likes conspiracies.

“Diggory,” she says eventually. Diggory’s outstretched hand drops. Hermione’s gaze moves from that to his other hand, which is holding one of Harry’s.

“So, what’s up?” Ron asks casually, trying to alleviate the tension, but he’s ignored.

Harry groans. “Hermione, you’re giving the _look_ again!”

Hermione turns her glare on him. He squeaks involuntarily; Ron doesn’t miss the way Diggory squeezes his hand in reassurance. “What look?” Hermione demands.

“There’s no look,” Cedric says soothingly, pulling off the soothing tone much more effectively than Hermione had at dinner three days ago. “I just wanted to introduce myself to Harry’s best friends.”

Hermione seems to be somewhat appeased. At least, she seems less like she’s going to tear Cedric’s head off with her teeth. Cedric’s friendly smile remains unchanged; that, combined with the fact that he’s risking Riddle’s wrath to do this, leads Ron to reluctantly admire his courage. 

“Don’t just stand there, sit down, then,” says Hermione, shutting her textbook carefully and tucking it into her bag. She casts a sideways glance at Ron, who hands her the sheet of parchment he’s been writing on for half of their lunch period. She clears her throat.

“Is that a _list of questions_ ?” Harry says, moving to stand up again. Cedric squeezes his hand again, and he reluctantly sits back down. Merlin help them, they’ve been dating— or ‘dating,’ according to Hermione— for _two days._ What has Ron been missing.

“Shush, you,” says Hermione, jabbing her newly sharpened quill at a pouting Harry. “This is a serious interrogation. So, Cedric, how was your first date? You went to Hogsmeade, right? Which restaurant?”

Cedric remains calm in the face of Hermione’s investigative mode. Ron is impressed. He would have caved and offered her everything he had within the first second. Then again, he thinks he might be in love with her… she’s very smart. Bossy, but smart. And she’s not stupidly perfect-looking like Riddle, even though she’s just as smart, maybe smarter, and she does good things even when they’re hard and she sticks by her friends and she’s not a homicidal sociopath. She’s quite nice… 

Ron jolts at a stabbing pain in his left bicep. Hermione’s quill prods him again, for good measure, as she repeats pointedly, “We’re all set with the questions, then.” She pauses in case Ron has anything to add. Ron doesn’t, so she continues, “Alright, we’ll consider you on probation. You’d better watch out for how you treat Harry— he’s a marshmallow—“

“‘Mione,” Harry mumbles, his flaming face in his hands. Ron crosses his arms and tries to be intimidating, nodding along to Hermione. He’s not sure that it works; Cedric doesn’t seem very intimidated, although he’s not smiling anymore.

“Don’t worry,” Cedric reassures her. “I’ll take care of him.”

“And if you ever see Riddle,” Hermione prompts.

“I will not run in the other direction, but I can watch my back,” Cedric promises.

Speaking of Riddle— at dinner, Ron cranes his neck around to find the head of shiny hair at the Slytherin table. Unsurprisingly, now that Ron’s figured him out, he’s staring right back at Ron, meeting Ron’s gaze without shame. 

Ron smirks. Riddle’s eyebrows do a complicated thing, possibly an attempt at intimidating Ron, or possibly— with Ron’s enlightened perspective— trying to hide his jealousy. Ron pointedly turns his back, dismissive, and hopes that Riddle stews in his rage. Serves that bastard right. He’s never deserved Harry. 

Honestly, _no one_ deserves Harry, who’s so sweet despite the Dursleys that Ron would wrap him up in blankets and bury him in cuddles every day if it weren’t so girly, but Cedric is leagues better than Riddle. Cedric, like Hermione, isn’t a homicidal sociopath, or a Slytherin.

When they— Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Cedric— are walking out of the Great Hall, out of the corner of his eye, Ron catches a Ravenclaw watching them with a strange expression— was that the jaw thing?— but when he double-takes, she’s deep in conversation with her friend. Ron doesn’t puzzle too much over it.

* * *

On Friday, two terrible things happen to Ron. 

One: he runs out of the chocolate he’d bought during the weekend’s Hogsmeade trip. That’s not really as important as the second thing, because he can always beg some more off of Harry, who tends to ration his candies meticulously. 

Two: the fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins have double Potions, which is always a disaster. This week, Ron becomes a victim. Also, Ron, newly enlightened, realizes that Hermione’s theory is only one further validated by the events that unfold, and this troubles him greatly.

It starts out innocuously enough. Riddle sits behind them and then stares at Harry instead of at Slughorn. Usually, this riles Harry up and sparks some sort of altercation, but today, Harry’s actually taking notes and half-smiling to himself and doesn’t seem to notice at all. Usually, Ron would assume the increased intensity of Riddle’s glare is directly related to Riddle’s increased desire to murder Harry, but Ron— newly enlightened— now knows that it’s probably frustration at being ignored.

Riddle’s glare amps up until Ron feels scorched just by being in proximity to its target. Okay, _definitely_ frustration at being ignored. Hermione nudges him, triumphant, and Ron can’t even be mad because Riddle’s discreet temper tantrum is _gold_. Ron hides a grin in his sleeve, pretending to wipe his nose.

When Slughorn’s finally exhausted from waddling back and forth in front of the blackboard, he sets the students loose to try the potion of the day in pairs of their own choosing. If Ron’s being honest, Slughorn’s almost _too_ relaxed with his classes. Ron has taken advantage of this, of course, but there are times, like now, when it’s not very convenient.

“Hey, Harry, Hermione’s setting up the cauldrons and you can get ingredients,” Ron says quickly, pulling Harry away from Riddle’s imminent advances. Better Cedric than Riddle, and Ron wants to keep it that way.

Harry frowns at Ron, confused. “Why’re we changing partners all of a sudden? What about you?”

“I’ll work with Neville,” Ron reassures him. Harry does not look reassured and refuses to budge. Dang it, his stubborn obliviousness cost them their distance from Riddle.

“Ron, with Neville?” Riddle inserts smoothly, scoffing. “A recipe for disaster, especially with the wit-sharpening potion. Why don’t I work with you, Harry, and Ron, Hermione, and Neville can be a group of three.”

“No way!” Ron objects, with unwarranted hostility. Riddle definitely picked up on that.

Harry squints at Riddle. “Where’s Abraxas?"

“Feeling a little under the weather, so I don’t have a partner,” says Riddle, without a single twitch to indicate his lie. It’s almost certainly a lie; it’s too convenient. Ron glares at him, hopefully conveying ‘ _you don’t have a millionth of a chance with him you bastard’_. His attempted intimidation has about as much effect as it had on Cedric— that is, none at all.

“Oh, then I’ll work with you,” Harry agrees easily. Apparently nothing can bring his mood down today, not even the prospect of working with the cause of his two-month despondency. Riddle guides an unresisting Harry to his cauldron; while Harry isn’t looking, he glances back and smirks at Ron. That smarmy snake. Ron fumes, but there’s nothing he can do.

While Ron and Hermione and Neville count their clockwise stirs, they eavesdrop on the conversation behind them.

“So. Diggory,” Riddle prompts.

“What about him?” Harry says blithely, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Why are you dating him?” 

“Why’re you interested?” At this, there’s a crash, and Riddle curses. The smile in Harry’s voice is more evident as he teases, “Careful with those scales, Tom. We don’t want you cussing like a _lowlife_ , eh?”

Hermione arches an eyebrow. Neville shakes his head, whispering “I don’t want to know,” and Ron shrugs.

“I’m always careful,” Riddle grumbles, refusing to rise to the bait of Harry’s second comment, which anyone else would have been eviscerated for— then, “Not that one, you idiot, armadillo bile before the beetles!”

Harry retorts indignantly, “I _am_ doing the armadillo bile, shouldn’t the potion be blue?”

“Keep mixing.”

“I _am!_ I’m not an idiot!”

“No, you’re a disaster,” Riddle says, sounding almost fond, but evidently Harry doesn’t hear a lick of the fondness.

“I am _not!_ Perfectly functional here, thank you very much!”

“Wait, I—“

“Ah, quick, Tom, add the beetles!”

“Ow!” A clang. “Stop dodging my question, Harry, why are you dating Diggory all of a sudden?”

“So I can’t date someone nice without the Spanish Inquisition on my back?”

“Is that all you can say about him? He’s _nice_?”

“What’s wrong with being nice? I like Cedric. More than I like _you_.” 

“You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“I barely talk to you!”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

Mesmerized by the dysfunctional dynamic between Harry and Riddle, Hermione and Ron notice too late that Neville’s added something into their cauldron that he definitely not have added. Their potion turns a dull brown color and hisses ominously, fizzing.

“Oh, no,” Neville whimpers, paralyzed, and Ron tackles him out of the way of the vapors rising from the cauldron, trusting Hermione to get herself out of the way. 

“Heads up!” Hermione yells. Slughorn starts waddling over but he’s too slow; the potion’s fizzing picks up and with a belch, it explodes over everyone in the immediate vicinity, rendering Ron’s courageous tackling of Neville moot. They’re both covered in the stuff.

As Ron’s vision becomes swirly and he loses all coherent thought, the last thing he clearly processes is Riddle’s voice saying “I should have known not to sit behind Longbottom,” followed by a resounding slap.

* * *

“Goodness, what happened to all of you?” Madame Pomphrey asks, unnecessarily, as she takes over the levitation charms on the students and floats them into the hospital wing. It’s obvious what happened from the sludge. “Potions accident, you poor dears. Oh, they’re still conscious!”

Ron, being gently lowered into his hospital bed, is babbling something about Hermione’s hair.

“It’s easier levitating them, ma’am,” Harry explains apologetically. “They kept wandering off. Here, take Slughorn too.” Harry and Tom were the only ones on their half of the dungeon-classroom unharmed by the exploding potion, thanks to Tom’s quick shield. Most of the Slytherins, being on the other side of the room, were unscathed.

Madame Pomphrey exclaims over Slughorn. Harry half-expects the thin supports of the hospital bed to sag under Slughorn’s weight, but they don’t.

Once the potion victims are settled and sufficiently restrained from casually strolling out, Madame Pomphrey turns to Tom and Harry.

“We were making a Wit-Sharpening Potion,” supplies Tom. “Neville added turkey bile instead of armadillo bile. It’s an easy mix-up, but it causes an explosive reversal of the other ingredients’ properties.”

“Ah, so it made a Wit-Dulling Potion instead,” Madame Pomphrey says, and Tom nods.

“It should wear off in a few hours. The dose wasn’t strong.”

Harry rounds on Tom. “If you noticed what ingredient Neville put in, you had the time to stop him, didn’t you? Why didn’t you?”

“Uh,” says Tom, in a rare moment of floundering. “I saw it out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t have been sure—”

“Bullshit! Your reflexes are better than that!”

Tom wavers between offended at the accusation and pleased at the backhanded praise. He ends up not having to decide between reactions because Harry slaps him again, on the same cheek, which is now significantly redder than the other.

“No roughhousing in my hospital!” Madame Pomphrey reprimands them, and they jump, having forgotten she was there. “Boys, why don’t you leave us be for now, and you’ll have your friends back by tomorrow morning. I’m keeping them overnight, just in case.”

“Can we visit after dinner?” Harry asks, visibly upset.

“You heard her, they’ll be fine,” says Tom, one hand already clamping down around Harry’s wrist while the other cups his stinging cheek. 

“Of course, dear,” says Madame Pomphrey, the stern set of her mouth softening. After the door shuts behind them, cutting off Harry’s token protests, she shakes her head. “Younglings.”

* * *

“Why am I sitting with _you_ for dinner?” Harry protests, testing the strength of Tom’s grip. No give. “The Gryffindor table is perfectly fine. Or I could sit with Cedric!”

“ _Not_ Diggory,” Tom says with force. Harry starts at his sudden vehemence; Tom elaborates, “You’ve been spending all of your time with him, the past few days. What’s one dinner going to change?”

Harry realizes something. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?” Tom says slowly, knowing very well what question Harry’s referring to.

“Why are you interested?”

“Interested in what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Tom,” Harry huffs, “it doesn’t suit you. Seriously, why are you so hung up on Diggory?”

“I’m not hung up on him,” says Tom. They descend a flight of stairs. Harry waits for Tom to continue, but Tom doesn’t.

“You only ever ask out of the blue like that in Potions when you’ve been stewing over something for a while, so. What are you hung up on, then?”

Tom stops moving, mid-step. Harry stumbles; Tom steadies him. Tom sighs. “Are you going to let this go?”

“No. Would _you_ let this go if it were me? You’re acting really strange.” Harry puffs up. “As your rival, I demand to know why.”

Tom turns his gaze upwards, praying for patience. “Please?”

“Okay,” says Harry, disturbed, “now I really want to know, and I’m maybe a little worried.” Suddenly he grins, devious. “I knew it, you’re _jealous_.”

Tom’s gaze snaps back to Harry, his eyes widening.

“You _like_ Cedric, am I right or am I right?”

“Salazar save me,” Tom says, turning away and resuming his descent down the staircase to hide his relief. He misses the flash of disappointed, rueful self-deprecation on Harry’s face. It’s gone in an instant anyway, replaced by mischievous cheer.

“You didn’t deny it,” Harry singsongs, following him. “Tom. Tom, don’t ignore me, _c’mon_ Tom, how old are you?”

“Three,” Tom deadpans, just to hear Harry’s delighted laugh. 

They enter the Great Hall early— before the dishes have appeared for dinner. Tom immediately latches onto Harry again before Harry can escape. Harry scowls at Tom. Tom blinks.

“Fine,” Harry says. As they near the Slytherin table, he adds, “Don’t blame me if I murder Malfoy under duress.”

“Which Malfoy?”

“Draco.”

“Sure,” Tom agrees easily, ignoring the betrayed look Draco shoots him, having heard all of that. 

“ _I’m_ the better brother,” Draco sulks. “ _Hon_ estly. Abraxas is a total peacock.”

Tom merely says, “Youth is precious,” and smiles, charming, leaving Draco to wallow in his indignation. Harry snickers.

Behind them, Draco turns to Pansy Parkinson and motions to his left cheek, then points at Tom, and makes a snide comment.

Tom manhandles Harry onto the bench right beside his usual seat. Unfortunately, Harry is somewhat used to this.

“Potter,” Abraxas drawls from Harry’s left, disproportionately civilized in comparison to how just two weekends ago Harry had punched him so hard he’d doubled over, wheezing. It was in a Quidditch game, of course, which had promptly turned into a violent tussle… anyway. Abraxas gives Harry whiplash. Harry has never figured him out.

“Malfoy, I see you’re feeling better,” Harry returns. “Nott, Avery, Crabbe, Goyle, Lestrange, other Lestrange, Lady Zabini, Mulciber— is that Mulciber? I said hi, Mulciber. Oh, he’s sleeping.”

“Don’t mind him,” says Nott. “He’s always asleep."

“And yet his grades are better than yours,” Zabini says languidly. Nott stiffens, which Harry hadn’t even thought possible, ramrod straight as Nott had already been.

“Bickering,” Tom says pointedly, and Nott relaxes. Marginally. Harry puzzles over what that was all about, but before he can ask, Zabini addresses him. 

“So. Harry Potter. I don’t believe we’ve conversed much outside of times of crises.”

“That’s on purpose,” Harry says, startling Zabini into a genuine chuckle. Everybody knows that Zabini breaks a heart a month for her own entertainment— it’s a wonder that she still has hearts to break, honestly. And Harry still nurses a healthy fear of her from third year’s ‘time of crises’, which had been begun and ended by Zabini herself. He’s fairly sure that Sirius is still terrified of her; he flinches whenever she’s mentioned.

“I _like_ you,” Zabini says, then to Tom, “Don’t mess this up.”

“Mess what up?” Harry asks, curious.

“Nothing,” Tom says evasively. Zabini rolls her eyes.

“Look, food,” Avery says. Very subtle, Avery.

“Delicious,” says Lestrange number one, his voice dull.

“Eat up,” adds the other Lestrange, dutifully. “Before it goes cold.”

“Hogwarts food doesn’t go cold,” Harry points out, and starts eating anyway. Tom’s friends are weird. Every time he sits at the Slytherin table, they clam up. Everyone besides Tom and Zabini and Malfoy is acting like one wrong move will sign their death warrant.

Slowly, the table warms up some. Avery and Nott are bickering with the Lestranges egging them on; Zabini is reeling in another victim by his lapels; Malfoy is dictating an essay for Crabbe and Goyle’s homework. Tom nudges Harry.

“Hmm?” Harry says, his cheeks bulging with mashed potatoes. The peace and quiet, a stark change from the Gryffindor table, has lulled him into a mellow food-stupor. Usually when Tom drags him over to the Slytherin table for dinner, it’s for some rivalry thing, though, so Harry pulls himself back to the present. He guesses that Tom has been missing the attention. The prick. He cackles internally; his plan is working.

“Professor Merrythought said that the only way to defeat a boggart is by using _riddikulus_ and dared me to prove her wrong,” Tom says, pulling out a blank sheet of parchment along with a ballpoint pen and his Defense textbook.

Harry chews and swallows. “Ridiculous!” He laughs at his own terrible pun. Tom fights the automatic quirk of his lips; he refuses to laugh at ‘tasteless jokes’. Harry mulls over the problem. “Okay, so how much do you want to bet on this one? Five galleons? Why am I only now hearing about this, anyway, didn’t you have Defense on Wednesday?”

Tom gives him a sardonic look. “And when would I have told you, did you want me to bring it up while you were busy sucking face with Diggory?”

 _Yes_ , Harry thinks, _that’s the entire point_. He says instead, “We haven’t even kissed!”

“That’s not possible,” Avery interjects, unable to contain himself. “You’re too touchy to not have… y’know. Been digging the Diggory.” He makes a face. 

“I could have happily lived my entire life without hearing that phrase,” Abraxas mutters.

“I’m _saving_ my first kiss!” Harry says defensively, his face flaming. Tom’s brows inch towards his hairline. Harry seems to register what he said, and then buries his head in his arms with a mortified sound, the tips of his ears darkening even more in color.

Tom, feeling some goodwill and possibly relief, takes mercy on him. “Regardless— I didn’t start without you, don’t worry. We’ll bet a favor.”

“Noo, that’s _Slytherin_ currency,” Harry says, lifting his head. “I’ve to get some coin for Honeydukes— Ron’s run out of his Chocolate Frogs and he’s going to beg mine off of me tomorrow.”

“You could always have Tom buy sweets for you, as the favor,” Avery says.

“Isn’t that kind of romantic? Sends the wrong signals, doesn’t it?” Nott muses.

Mulciber, it turns out, has been awake. He turns his head where it had been resting on his arms to look at Tom. “Would those signals be _wrong_?” he says, cryptically to Harry, obviously to everybody else, and then closes his eyes and seems to fall back asleep.

Tom just seems vaguely frustrated. “A favor, Harry.”

“Fine. You’re on. Prepare to lose,” Harry says. He shovels another spoonful of potatoes into his mouth. “Having no fear doesn’t count as a solution, though.” 

“Of course,” Tom says, flipping to his Defense textbook’s index.

“Lemme have that after you,” Harry mumbles around his food.

“Mmhmm.”

The other Slytherins share a commiserating eye-roll. Harry is blind, even with his glasses on. 

Zabini happens to glance towards the Hufflepuff table and catch Diggory’s eye. Diggory winks and turns back to the Ravenclaw girl he’s conversing with. 

Zabini’s suspicions arise. That’s less than two centimeters between them on the bench, and plenty of empty space to sit further from each other… 

Is it her business?

Fuck that. Everything is her business.

* * *

“Does Diggory know Cho Chang?” Zabini asks out of the blue as they arrive at the Hospital Wing. She’d ditched her boy toy at some point. 

Tom perks up beside Harry. The rest of the Slytherins following them have no compunction in listening in.

“Yeah, they’re pretty good friends, I think,” Harry replies vaguely, then, as soon as they enter, “‘Mione! What are you _doing_?”

“What does it look like, dunderhead,” Hermione says, her quill flying across her parchment, adding a line to a solid six inches of cramped writing.

Ron sighs from the cot next to her. “I tried to stop her, mate, I really did. But ‘success doesn’t appear out of thin air.’” He mimics Hermione’s scolding tone eerily well.

“It doesn’t,” Tom says in reproach. Harry regrets introducing them to each other. They get along smashingly. Honestly, at this point, Harry and Tom are only token rivals, and Ron is the only one holding onto his grudge for the fiasco of second year. And third year. And okay, there are quite a few fiascos to hold a grudge for, Harry can’t exactly blame Ron.

Ron takes offense to Tom‘s insult. Familiar bickering fills the hospital room until Neville asks them to please quiet down because he’s kind of scared of Madame Pomphrey. The quiet only lasts a moment.

“Exploding Snap?” Dean Thomas offers over the lone scratching sound of Hermione’s quill, producing a deck out of nowhere.

“Lions versus Snakes!” Seamus Finnegan hollers excitedly, squashing poor Neville’s last hope for a quiet night in. Since there’s no one else in the Hospital Wing besides the Wit-Dulling Potion’s recovered victims, Madame Pomphrey magnanimously lets chaos reign until curfew.

* * *

After the visiting students are shooed out and Madame Pomphrey has retired to her bedroom, Hermione sets to convincing the residents of the Hospital Wing of the Conspiracy, which consists of the fraudulent nature of Harry and Diggory’s relationship. This task is relatively easy, considering how everybody has already been convinced, for _years_ , of Harry and _Tom’s_ mutual crushes. Zabini’s input expands the Conspiracy to include Cho’s and Cedric’s possibly blooming romance.

Zabini, who’s stayed behind to gather intelligence, finds it absolutely thrilling. Even more thrilling is the birth of a betting pool.

“Ten galleons for Yule,” Seamus Finnegan whispers. They’re all whispering so Madame Pomphrey remains oblivious to the group huddled around Hermione’s cot. Hermione diligently records Seamus’ bet.

“Are you kidding?” Dean Thomas says. “Harry’s not bloody going back to the Dursleys for winter break— that terrifying motherfucker Sirius Black would fucking _murder_ Riddle. Riddle’s got to establish his relationship first. I’ll match Seamus for the week before that.”

“Language,” Hermione says, half-heartedly, because Dean really hasn’t gotten that his swearing is less badass and more just annoying. The repetition is unimaginative and tasteless, and the more he swears, the less effective it is. At this point, Dean’s ‘fuck’ is equivalent to Lavender Brown’s ‘like’.

“Riddle’s not going to make a move ‘til Harry breaks up with Cedric,” says Parvati Patil. “With the way they’re Conspiring, there’s no chance of a breakup before at least a few months. Match for April.”

“ _Twenty_ galleons, for February,” Zabini cuts in.

“You’re still here?” Ron seems surprised.

“All business is my business,” says Zabini, with a sharp smile.

“Fifty galleons for Valentine’s Day,” Luna Lovegood says dreamily, inserting herself between Zabini and Neville. “Hello, Adelina.”

“How are _you_ here?” Ron squawks.

Zabini most assuredly does not startle. She recovers swiftly. “You may call me Zabini,” she purrs, calculating the likelihood of charming the girl. It’s not high. “Where are your shoes?”

Lovegood looks down. She is indeed barefoot. “I originally thought that Nargles were taking them, but it turns out to have been people,” she says serenely. “Since I’m not wearing my shoes, they can’t be taken anymore.”

Zabini narrows her eyes.

“Fifty,” Hermione says skeptically, “are you sure? Do you even _have_ fifty galleons?”

“I’ll pay for her bet,” Zabini says, the words slipping out before she has a chance to wonder what she’s doing. “Honey, follow me. I’ve a few spells to teach you.” 

Luna smiles vaguely.

Meanwhile, unaware of the wonders his infatuation with Harry is doing for inter-house relations, Tom lays in his bed and stares at nothing, one hand held to the ghost of a sting in his left cheek. 

* * *

Zabini takes Tom aside before he walks into Potions class the next week.

“What,” Tom says irritably. Diggory and Harry seem to have grown closer over the last few days. They’re _constantly_ touching. Tom twitches whenever he looks at them, and he can’t help himself— he looks often. Sometimes he wonders if Harry’s still saving his first kiss. But Harry seems happy, and Tom is loathe to disturb that even for his own benefit, considering how uncharacteristically subdued Harry had been since the school year started. Tom hadn’t been _worried_ , exactly… just a little wrong-footed.

“Stop staring at him,” Zabini snaps, bringing Tom’s attention back to herself. “Could you be any more _obvious_?”

“What?”

“You like him.” Zabini takes a step back, her eyes widening at his abruptly cold expression. “I’m here to help!”

Tom scrutinizes her. She’s not lying, unless by omission. “Forgive me, but I cannot recall you ever helping anybody for _free_.”

 _It’s not for free. I have seventy galleons riding on this._ “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“What do you want,” Tom says, his patience wearing thin.

“Your soul,” Zabini jokes. “No, really. You won’t be the one paying me for this. I sincerely wish only success for you in this endeavor.”

“Doubtful.”

“I break out in hives whenever you two are near each other. Believe me, I am only doing this for my own peace of mind.”

“And perhaps a betting pool,” Tom deduces.

“Ah,” Zabini grins, “you’ve figured me out. Now, would you like to hear my little tidbit or not?”

Far be it from Tom to be so stupid as to turn down free information. Especially from Zabini. “It had better be worth my while.”

“Oh, I'm _always_ worth your while.”

“... Get on with it, Adelina.”

“Ooh, bringing out the first name.” At Tom’s impatient glare, she pouts. “Alright, alright. Here it is.” She leans up to whisper in Tom’s ear, angling her head, and her flowery perfume fills Tom’s nose. “I have reason to suspect that Diggory is cheating on Harry with Cho Chang.” She pulls away and winks. “Make of that what you will,” she says cheerfully.

Wait, what??

“Zabini—“ but she’s already flounced away.

Tom schools his expression and enters Slughorn’s classroom. Despite his internal turmoil, he takes notes, but he doesn’t absorb much of them. 

Harry seems happy, yet Diggory is _cheating_ on him— Tom cannot understand it. And Zabini’s ‘reason to suspect’ is always correct. Tom will never doubt her again after third year (that had been a right mess until Zabini took pity on them, and Tom will never see Bertie Bott’s Beans the same way again). 

Should Tom tell Harry, cause a break up? That would be the most advantageous to himself— Harry would be romantically available once again. But would Harry be devastated by the news, and therefore become even less available than he is now? That would open for Tom the opportunity to step in as a comforting friend. And yet, Tom loathes the idea of being a mere rebound.

Should he wait it out, do nothing? He could confront Diggory. He could... 

“I thought you liked Cedric?” Harry asks him when they’re halfway through the potion of the day. They’ve partnered again, automatically, and this time Ron Weasley didn’t make any attempt at keeping them apart.

“Hm?” Tom has never liked Diggory. That had been Harry’s own assumption. He says so.

“Oh,” Harry says. Tom looks over at him. His brow is furrowed, which Tom doesn’t particularly like. Harry should be happy. “So you’re with Zabini, then?”

“ _What?_ ” Tom is bewildered. Where had this strange idea come from?

Harry is bewildered right back at him. “But— that,” and he gestures towards the doorway.

Tom’s brain races to catch up. The doorway— Zabini had pulled him aside at the doorway before class. _Oh_. Zabini had closed the distance between them to whisper, and from a certain angle, it may have looked... intimate. Tom recalls her tilting her head on purpose— that sly—

“No matter how that might have looked, there is nothing between us,” Tom denies firmly. “She was giving me information.” He pauses, sensing Harry's curiosity, and adds, “ _Sensitive_ information.”

“Okay,” Harry says, dubious, biting his lip. He’s abnormally quiet for the rest of the class, failing to respond to Tom’s tentative teasing. Tom feels vaguely concerned, but the Diggory problem occupies him and he doesn’t want to give anything away before he has a solid plan of action, so he also falls silent.

The more he thinks about it, the more dreadfully wronged Harry has been. Diggory immediately dated Cho after he got together with Harry. How long did he wait— two weeks? One week? Less than that? 

Outrageous. Harry deserves leagues better. _Tom_ , for one, would recognize Harry’s worth. Diggory doesn’t understand what he has.

Harry, sensing his dark mood, offers only a small “bye” after class ends. The tentative sound brings Tom back to the present.

“I’m not mad at you,” Tom says.

Harry’s unconvinced. When he looks uncertainly at Tom, his irises are so very, very green. Precious. 

Diggory is _such_ a bastard.

Tom sets his jaw and stalks out of the dungeons so he doesn’t spill his guts to Harry right then and there. If he’s quick, he’ll find his prey before dinner. It’ll give him a petty sense of satisfaction to ruin Diggory’s appetite.

Tom has dirt on everyone. He’s confident that he can do it.

He finds Diggory travelling towards the Great Hall in a clump of yellow- and blue- themed students. How predictable. He waits around the next corner in what Harry would call an ambush and what he calls strategic placement. 

When Diggory and his group turn the corner, Diggory doesn’t seem to recognize why Tom is waiting for him. Another mark against him. “Riddle,” he says formally, with a slight dip of his chin in the pureblood greeting between equals. 

Tom sincerely loathes him.

“Diggory.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Diggory has a distinct sparkle in his eyes that reminds Tom of Dumbledore. It only increases his ill will.

“Why don’t we take this somewhere private— after all, it is only between you and I,” Tom says, his tone making it more of an order than a suggestion.

“Sure,” Diggory says with mild cheer, without a hint of guilt. 

“Cedric,” Cho Chang says, stepping forward, “don’t let him push you around.”

Diggory’s smile softens as he addresses the girl, saying he’s fine, he can take care of himself. Tom’s anger spikes. How _dare_ he?

They end up in an obscure corridor.

“Is this the shovel talk?” Diggory says, knowing perfectly well it isn’t.

Tom relaxes his stance. He casts faster when he’s loose. “Cho Chang.”

“Look, Riddle—“

“You are romantically interested in her,” Tom interrupts evenly. Denying Diggory the chance to finish his sentences gives Tom control.

“I don’t—“

“You are dating _Harry_ ,” Tom continues, his anger carefully frozen over. “And yet you choose Cho Chang. Did you know, she has the most _wonderful_ fan collection hidden behind the fake back of her trunk.”

“How did you—“ Diggory shakes his head. “Threat. Right. Riddle—“

“Pretty things burn easily.”

“Riddle!” Diggory shouts, exasperated. “Merlin! What do you want?”

Tom sneers and the temperature in the corridor drops twenty degrees. “You have until winter break to do right by Harry, or I swear to God, you will wish I would have _ended_ you.”

“Right.” Diggory blanches. “Tom, please, calm down.”

“I _am_ calm,” Tom snarls.

“Ohh-kay,” Diggory says. “Look, I can’t explain everything to you, but I’ll be honest here: I _am_ interested in Cho Chang. Don’t gut me now! All I can say is: talk to Harry.” He’s not lying, or at least he believes himself.

“This is _your_ issue.”

“Rest assured, Tom, Harry can explain everything. Would you respect my personal space?”

Tom is, in fact, a mere inch from Diggory. Diggory has been backed into a wall. Tom doesn’t bother to move. “Will you respect Harry’s fidelity?”

For some reason, Diggory relaxes and his eyes twinkle again. “Will you talk to Harry about it? _Before_ you dump my body in the woods, mind you?”

Tom finally steps back. He can tell when he’s not getting any more information out of someone. “Don’t be crass.”

“I don’t doubt you could do better, then,” says Diggory. “Unfortunately, I have no experience in where to dump dead bodies.”

“Who said _I_ have experience?” Tom says nonchalantly. He’s still beyond incensed, but he’s willing to let it go— for now. Diggory had better not waste this rare second chance. He only has it because Harry likes him so much. The temperature of the corridor warms up, the oppressive weight of Tom’s magic lifted.

Diggory snorts, fixing his robes. Tom is aware of his own attractiveness, but Diggory also has magnetism and good looks— a certain boy-next-door charm— and the thought that Harry is attracted to this doesn’t sit well. Tom, for one, is the opposite of Diggory’s brightness. 

Just before Diggory brushes past Tom, he stops and eyes Tom. After a moment he says, “You know, Harry really cares about you.”

“Does he?” Tom blinks at the non-sequitur. 

“Yeah, he talks about you all the time,” Cedric says, pinning him through with an unsettling, piercing stare.

Tom doesn’t know what response Cedric is looking for. He breathes out slowly and turns to go to the Great Hall as well. He tries not to feed the fragile hope fluttering in his chest, but he’s never had control over his emotions when it comes to Harry.

* * *

There’s only a week left before winter break, during which Harry seems to bounce back from his strange mood from the last Potions class. Tom, on the other hand, continues to be conflicted and baffled by Diggory’s behavior. If anything, Diggory’s only gotten _closer_ to Cho Chang, despite Tom’s warning.

Diggory had said to talk to Harry. But what if Harry doesn’t know and this sends him back into his ill mood? Tom hasn’t figured out the best way to keep Harry happy as of yet, and so he’s been increasingly on edge. Harry, always perceptive at the least convenient times possible, picks up on this.

“Did something happen, Tom?” Harry drops his bag on the library table next to Tom, and Tom internally waves goodbye to his blessedly free afternoon.

“No,” he says, sharper than he’d intended. At Harry’s subtle flinch, he softens. “I’ve been stressed lately.” It’s as close to an apology as Tom can get.

Harry pulls a chair out and sits. “You wanna talk about it?”

Tom will not spill his guts. Tom will not spill his guts. Tom will not carve out his own intestines and offer them to Harry on a silver platter.

“Not especially.”

“... That was a really weak refusal,” Harry says. When Tom doesn’t respond— if he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to stop himself— Harry continues, “If it has you this agitated, it’s got to be important. I’m _worried_ about you, Tom.”

Damn it, Harry. “Di—“

“Is it Wool’s? Wait, did you say something?”

Tom sags, infinitely relieved for the interruption; the motion is justified by the excuse Harry’s unwittingly given him. “You know me too well. Just— the other day, Dumbledore called me to his office. I can’t stay at Hogwarts for break anymore, with Grindelwald on the loose.” The news _had_ upset him, but he’s been too distracted to obsess over it. He had expected Dumbledore to do this sooner or later, anyway, and had made plans accordingly.

“You’d be safer _here_ than at _Wool’s_! I can’t believe him!”

“Well, I can,” Tom says wryly. At Harry’s genuine distress, he reassures, “I’ve reserved a room at the Leaky. It’s not that bad.”

“ _Not that bad_ , he says. Living at the _Leaky Cauldron_ , he says,” Harry mutters, then, to Tom, “I can’t believe _you_. You should have told me earlier!” 

Tom raises a brow, bemused. Harry scrambles for a Self-Inking quill and parchment, and starts scribbling.

“What are you doing?” Tom is unable to read Harry’s chicken scratch handwriting. It should disturb him more, the fondness that swells in him at Harry’s messiness, considering his usual standards. Oh, well. He’d stopped fighting it back in second year.

“Cancel your apartment thingy,” Harry declares. “You’re staying with me and Sirius and Remus over break.”

“Sirius and Remus and I,” Tom corrects, grateful for having put off giving the down payment for his reservation. He knows that Harry doesn’t offer out of pity— he is the only one who truly _understands_ , really— so Tom doesn’t have any qualms in taking advantage. After all, Harry is also taking refuge at Grimmauld.

“I open my home to you, and what I get is a grammar checker,” Harry huffs, teasing lightheartedly. “Have some mercy on my poor nerves!”

“I‘m plenty merciful on your nerves— they are my old friends,” Tom says. 

Harry snorts. “Can you imagine if I told Draco that you had a sense of humour? He’d _die_.”

“He would rise out of his grave if you told him I referenced a muggle book,” Tom says, dry as Slughorn’s first alcohol cabinet after Slug Club gatherings. (Slughorn keeps a second cabinet in his expanded trunk, which he doesn’t know that Tom knows about.)

Harry swats him. “Tom! Don’t give me nightmares.”

Tom closes his unused textbook. He’s not getting any more productive today. “I wouldn’t. They’re strange enough already.”

“Was that an insult?”

“Will you attend the Malfoys’ winter ball with me?”

“What?” Harry blinks, thrown off, and Tom registers what his mouth had blurted without his permission. Tom rolls with it.

“It’s a yes or no question, Harry.”

Harry’s not entirely sure what the question was, because Tom had said it kind of quickly. But Tom’s looking kind of tense, like a lot is hinging on Harry’s answer, and Harry hates disappointing people, especially Tom, so he decides not to ask him to repeat it. “Erm, yes?”

“Good,” Tom says, satisfied. Harry will have plenty of time to come to terms with what he’s impulsively agreed to.

“Where are you going?”

“Aren’t you going to drop that letter off at the Owlery?” 

“Ah… yes,” Harry says, sheepish. “C’mon, then.” He sends a helpless grin Tom’s way and trots out of the library while Tom’s heart palpitates.

Tom doesn’t verbally thank him, but Harry knows he’s grateful anyway when he finds Honeydukes on his pillow the next day. Harry decides not to question how Tom got into the Gryffindor dorms.

* * *

“Hey, Tom?”

“Mm?”

“Does it feel like people are watching us?”

“People are always watching us, Harry.”

“More than usual, I mean.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay!”

They move out of the library and into the Chamber of Secrets, in which there is also a library, albeit a smaller one.

“… Hey, Tom?”

“Mm?”

“D’you think Merrythought gave us an impossible problem on purpose?”

Tom doesn’t respond.

“Tom? Tom? I’m gonna get some treacle. You want some? Nagini, I could get you some mice?”

“ _Mice!_ ” Nagini hisses eagerly, twining about Harry’s feet. “ _Juicy! Hunt. Crunch. Good human, Master’s mate, bring mice._ ”

Tom silently thanks the deities that Harry doesn’t understand Parseltongue. His moniker would be unexplainable.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Harry chuckles. “Nagini, I can’t walk like this! Hey, stay in here, okay?” Nagini knows the importance of hiding due to Dumbledore’s post-Grindelwald’s-rise crackdown, but sometimes she needs to be reminded. A large, poisonous snake wandering the corridors would not go over well. “Tom needs company, or else he’ll turn into an old hermit and he won’t even get to be the Slytherin version of a crazy cat lady.”

“ _Crazy cat lady Master!_ ” Nagini rattles a laugh, and Harry definitely recognizes that sound, if his smug glance towards Tom is any indication.

“Stop teaching her bad habits and go get your sugar fix,” Tom grumbles. “It took me forever to train her out of calling me Fluffy-Strings-on-Head.”

Harry cackles and leaves. Nagini still hasn’t really gotten the concept of hair.

* * *

  
A few days before break, Slytherin trounces Hufflepuff in a Quidditch game. Tom is simultaneously pleased, because Diggory broke his arm, and disgruntled, because Harry stays with him in the Hospital Wing along with Cho, and Tom has to remove himself from the vicinity before he _crucios_ Diggory, Cho, and also himself.

* * *

Harry’s been distracted for the entire train ride, too keyed up to pay attention to whatever Ron and Hermione are bickering about now. Trying to burn off some excess energy, he leaves their compartment and thoroughly travels the length of the train several times, jittering. 

A door slides open abruptly. Abraxas Malfoy braces himself on the doorframe and halts Harry’s pacing. “Would you get _in_ already,” he demands, more exasperated than haughty. Harry does, glad for something to do.

“To-om,” he whines, flopping down at Tom’s feet because all the other seats in the compartment are taken by Slytherins.

Tom turns the page of the book in his lap.

“What’s got you so agitated?” Avery wants to know. 

“I’m _dying_ ,” Harry moans. At this, Tom feels a jolt of concern, but continues to feign nonchalance, because Harry’s picked up some hyperbolic tendencies from his godfather, and false alarms are common. Harry continues, “of excitement. I _can’t wait_. This train ride is so long!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Tom says, relaxing internally. On the outside, he was never tense. “We’ll arrive in three hours and forty-seven minutes.”

“I’m gonna _die_ ,” Harry insists. He swoons dramatically. “Save me, Tom!”

“Isn’t _Diggory_ supposed to be your knight in shining armor?” Nott says.

“He’s busy lip-locking with Cho.” Harry pouts.

“ _What?_ ” The compartment yells at once.

“Cho Chang, fifth-year Ravenclaw,” Harry clarifies. It doesn’t seem to help. “Pretty nice I guess, has these epic Chinese fans with razor edges, best friend Marietta Edgecombe?”

Tom doesn’t manage to keep a straight face this time. He opens and closes his mouth a few times as his face contorts into several expressions at once. Harry finds the sight hilarious. “You _know?_ ” Tom says finally. (Should he feel bad for Harry’s inevitable distress, or good because Harry’s not dating anyone anymore? How do people normally handle situations like this?)

Harry nods. “Of course I know! Cedric and I broke up and everything after it happened!” His bright smile wavers with uncertainty at Tom’s sudden, venomous scowl.

“ _After_ it happened!?” Avery exclaims, and the Slytherins in the compartment erupt again, verbally tripping over each other to offer Harry retribution for the slight. Even Malfoy, normally so composed and beyond caring about such ‘petty things,’ seems to be somewhat outraged on Harry’s behalf.

Harry feels a little faint. He hadn’t thought that Tom’s friends actually liked him this much— he’d expected condolences, at most. It’s touching, even though Cedric and Cho don’t deserve anything the Slytherins are proposing to do to them.

Harry says so.

“Potter,” Malfoy frowns, leaning forward in his seat, “you shouldn’t undervalue yourself. Leniency on enemies is the first step towards failure.”

“For heaven’s sake, Cedric and Cho aren’t my enemies! Where did you get that idea?”

“Anyone who cheats on you, along with their accomplices, is an enemy,” Nott recommends.

Sometimes, Harry is sincerely concerned for how the pureblood heirs are functioning as normal, empathetic humans. Then again… feasibly, they’re probably not.

“We three are good friends,” says Harry firmly, hoping to nip any seeds of vengeance in the bud. “I appreciate the sentiment, but if I see one hair harmed on either of their heads—“

“Relax,” Zabini says. “I wouldn’t ruin Diggory’s hair. It’s perfect.”

Harry isn’t convinced. “Seriously.”

“Cho Chang’s hair, on the other hand—”

“Fair game,” Malfoy says. “It’s _too_ perfect. Straight. And shiny.”

“Are you _jealous?_ ” Harry says incredulously.

“No,” says Malfoy, exhibiting the closest thing to a pout Harry has ever seen on him.

“Don’t get him started,” Nott says. “He’s a menace to my humanity. If I listen to another hair product lecture I’ll turn into a peacock.”

Avery rolls his eyes. “You said that last time, too, and actually peacocks are allergic to Bertie Bott’s Beans so would you give me back my sweets?”

“ _I’ll_ show you _peacock_ ,” Malfoy threatens.

Avery shrieks, "Easy with the arm! That's my wand arm! Easily one of my top two most important arms!" and the train ride devolves from there.

Tom wonders when he got so used to the chaos that Harry tends to cause with his mere presence, even in normally level-headed people. He sighs, knowing from experience the futility of trying to wrangle everybody into order when they’re in this certain mood, and stares at a paragraph of his book, resolutely ignoring the heat of Harry’s body against his right leg.

He’s glad for the size and thickness of the book. It wouldn’t hide anything, otherwise.

Also, would Harry _truly_ mind if Tom murdered Cedric?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so excited for this second chapter you have no idea   
> we have SIRIUS and REMUs and REGULUS and FUTURE MINIOns and GETTING TOGETHER and... ahem. better keep working on that instead of just flailing about it

**Author's Note:**

> hope you're all staying safe! sending love <3 bless you and the horse you rode in on.
> 
> many thanks to lycxris for all of your lovely, enthusiastic support, and to cynrei for your prompt and helpful beta!


End file.
